


I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire

by zjofierose



Series: Zjo's zine fics [7]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Future, BAMF Allura (Voltron), Canon-Typical Violence, Devotion, Dystopia, Exile, Far Future, First Meetings, Future, Galra (Voltron) as a Gang, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Loyalty, M/M, Pre-Slash, Protective Shiro (Voltron), Rogue Keith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25643116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: Ten years pass, and Allura’s reclamation of Peraltea is secure. The kingdom is flourishing; new ties are being fostered with Esseff across the water and with Balleyo to the north. It is the blooming of a golden age, and Shiro is honored to stand at the Princess Allura’s side as she presides over all that is blossoming forth from the ruined remnants that were her birthright.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: Zjo's zine fics [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1503608
Comments: 7
Kudos: 48
Collections: Plausibility: A Sheith Zine





	I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sheith Plausibility Zine, such a pleasure!! Download the whole thing [here](https://t.co/UqToiMBMDp?amp=1).

Shiro’s nearly back to the checkpoint when he realizes he’s being followed. 

He can’t hear their footsteps over the rush of the desert wind around him, but he keeps catching a glimpse of a shadow that’s not his own as he comes around rocks or a ruin, keeps feeling the sensation of eyes on the back of his neck.

He hurries. There’s not really anything else he can do. If he can make it through the rest of the ruins to the first outpost, he can either wait there until whomever is following him gives up, or he can get an escort back to the encampment walls. As it is, he’s alone and relatively unarmed- he has his bayard, but it’s low on battery, and he’s otherwise been traveling light this trip, not wanting to carry any heavier armor or weapons in his bid to establish trading relations with the Temescal tribal alliance. 

Unfortunately, his preoccupation with his silent follower means that he’s not paying as much attention to the rest of his surroundings as he should, and he’s waylaid as he comes around the end of Ocean-View-That-Was, shadows converging on him as he moves through the ruined alleys and empty streets. There are three of them, and he fights as fiercely as he can, shooting one in the foot with his bayard before it dies, swinging punches into the faces of the others. It doesn’t help; the remaining two have him down before he can break free, pinned with his face in the ruined concrete of the old road even as he kicks and bucks wildly to escape. 

They’re bandits, Shiro thinks, their faces covered with dirty cloth, or maybe mercenaries sent from Berk who don’t like the idea of an alliance that combines the groups north of them with the groups south of them. Shiro’d been careful, skirting the edges of Berk’s boundaries, heading out to the very edge of the water to try and slip past, but clearly it wasn’t enough. 

He doesn’t know what they’ll do to him; he’s not carrying anything valuable, and though the young Princess Allura is fond of him as a person, he’s still just the youngest captain in her guard; he’s not worth ransoming, and she’ll know it as well as he does. He’s a worthless captive, likely to be killed or sold into slavery, maybe taken to the gladiator pits across the water in what’s left of South Franico.

Shiro hangs his head, resigned to his fate, and it’s only then that he happens to notice that the shadows aren’t quite right. There are three bandits and himself, all four shadows clearly visible on the cracked pavement in the noonday sun, but a little further off there’s a fifth shadow, just waiting, hovering on the edge of a ruined building just to their right. 

He eyeballs it, watches as it carefully raises a blade-shaped object and uses its free hand to gesture to the left. Shiro nods carefully, the smallest of gestures, then leans sharply off to the side just in time for a dagger to come whistling past his head and bury itself in one of his captors. 

The element of surprise is all he needs to break free of the hold the other bandit has on him, and he has the man pinned and gasping under him before he can respond. 

Shiro looks over to see his savior wiping an outsized knife on one of the fallen bandit’s clothes, the body of the other clearly visible behind him, and feels his eyes widen in surprise. The person currently systematically looting both bodies is hardly more than a child, a very young teenager at best, clothes ratty and frame thin. Shiro opens his mouth to speak, but the boy looks at him and Shiro loses his words in the face of the fiercest purple gaze he’s ever seen. 

The boy makes a sharp cutting motion with his hand, and Shiro nods, chastened. He’s right; they’re not safe here. Best to finish up and get out. 

Shiro knocks the bandit still pinned beneath him on the back of the head, leaving them unconscious, and when he steps away from the body, the boy approaches warily. He clearly wants to loot this one as well, and Shiro steps back quickly, leaving lots of space. Princess Allura’s headquarters at Ellsurito may not be wealthy, but Shiro’s better off than his companion, no question. 

The boy makes quick work of it, and before Shiro can hardly blink, he’s shoved all the bandits’ equipment, food, and gear in a pack, slipping his large knife back into his belt and disappearing into the shadows of a nearby alleyway.

Shiro stands staring after him for a long moment, then shakes himself and sets off at a brisk jog for the border. 

\---

It’s nearly a year before he sees the boy again. Shiro’s gotten himself captured by the Emervil Confederacy and unceremoniously tossed into a holding cell in what must once have been a warehouse. He’s busy picking himself up off the floor and hoping that the swing one of his captors took at his knee with an iron strut isn’t bad enough to really slow him down.

The knee seems to hold as he works his way to standing. He’s blindfolded and his hands are tied behind his back, but he can hear that there’s another person in here with him, a faint rustling and slow breaths off to his right. Sight’s his first priority, so he makes his way carefully to a wall and rubs the knot securing the blindfold against it until the fabric catches enough on the rough cinder block that it slips off his hair and uncovers an eye. He bends over and shakes his head hard, and the blindfold slips off entirely, falling to the shadowy floor. 

There’s a noise from beside him, and Shiro turns, his eyes widening in surprise as he recognizes the boy who had saved him from the ambush so many months ago. He’s gotten taller in the meantime, coming nearly to Shiro’s shoulder now, but still possesses the same narrow, wiry frame and sharp-planed face as before. His eyes are dark in the dim room but gleaming, and his teeth show white and even as he grins and steps closer to Shiro, glancing meaningfully down at his own belt.

Shiro can’t see anything, covered as the boy’s frame is by loose fabric, but he can guess that the large knife he remembers from before is somewhere under there. He nods his understanding and turns, giving the boy access to his tied hands. There’s some fumbling as Shiro lets the boy use his fingers to get the fabric out of the way, but sure enough, it’s only a moment before there’s the unmistakable hilt of a blade under his hand, and Shiro grins hard as he grasps it.

The boy pulls free, leaving the open blade in Shiro’s grip, and Shiro can feel the boy press his bonds against the blade until they part and thin, freed clever fingers prying the knife from Shiro’s grasp and then slicing through his restraints.

Shiro lets his hands drop and rubs at his wrists, turning to face his comrade. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t have words for the questions, for the joy bubbling up inside him yet, but he knows he needs to say  _ something _ . He opens his mouth to speak, but the boy holds an abrupt finger to his lips, and Shiro’s mouth shuts as he hears the sounds of their captors approaching. 

He falls silently into a low crouch at one side of the entrance, the boy mirroring him on the other side. It’s all over quickly, but when they are out in the open night air, the boy melts into the darkness like he was born from it, and Shiro is alone in the salt-encrusted debris by the waterfront.

\---

It happens again, and then again, and then several more times in the years that follow. Shiro rises through the ranks of Allura’s guard, a decorated warrior who would rather make peace than war, but who will fight fearsomely whenever circumstances warrant. He’s a gifted fighter, and a better tactician, and as the seasons pass, more and more of the surrounding area falls to Shiro and his forces under Princess Allura’s banner.

Still, in spite of all his success, Shiro’s not perfect, and the process of the consolidation of Peraltea under the rulership of Princess Allura is a long and bloody one. Shiro is captured, taken hostage, ambushed. It’s not every time that the purple-eyed boy, that the purple-eyed  _ young man _ , saves him, but it’s often enough. 

Shiro can’t say why or how it is that so many of his rescues feature the same familiar face- he suspects the young man follows him, though to what end, Shiro has no idea. Shiro’s grateful every time that the giant knife appears, slicing through his bonds like butter and separating Shiro from those who would do him harm. Still, his mysterious helper never speaks, never sticks around longer than it takes to free him, always melting away like he’s never been.

\---

Ten years pass, and Allura’s reclamation of Peraltea is secure. The kingdom is flourishing; new ties are being fostered with Esseff across the water and with Balleyo to the north. In the south, Potrero and M’lptahs are still primarily after each other, leaving Peraltea secure from any encroachment from either.

It is the blooming of a golden age, and Shiro is honored to stand at the Princess Allura’s side as she presides over all that is blossoming forth from the ruined remnants that were her birthright.

At her side is also where he stands today, on the fifteenth anniversary of her coronation, watching passively as various vassals of the smaller tributaries in Peraltea bring their gifts and offerings to honor the Princess Allura.

A small tussle breaks out a little down the line, and Shiro rests his hand on his belt, squinting. The line guards should be handling it, but he can see the scuffle approaching, and edges in front of the princess as it draws nearer. It’s not likely to be anything truly dangerous, not within the citadel walls like this, but he’s not about to take any chances.

There’s a knot of Leandrans huddled together, dragging forward what must be a captive. Shiro doesn’t like it, that some of the more recently conquered tribes still expect that Allura wants tribute in the form of slaves or prisoners, but it takes time to break old habits, so he merely remains wary as the group approaches and, beaming, flings a body at her feet.

The man they drop before her is lean, but built like a fighter. Dark hair spills around his downturned face and his clothes carry the purple and black of the Galroy. 

Shiro feels Allura tense beside him. 

“Your highness,” the largest of the captors says, bowing, “we bring to you a most precious gift to demonstrate our unswerving fealty to your rule. Please,” she bows more deeply, “accept it and do with it as you will.”

“A Galroy captive?” Allura asks, and her voice is cold and steel.

“Not just any captive, your highness,” the Leandran answers, looking up with a smug smile. “This is a son of the Emperor of the Galroy himself.”

Allura freezes at the same moment that the captive raises his head, and Shiro feels like he’s having an out of body experience. The man’s mouth is bloodied and he’s dressed much more finely than Shiro’s ever seen, but he’d recognize that sharp face, those beautiful eyes, anywhere. 

“A son of Zarkon?” Allura asks, and her voice is the most deadly Shiro’s heard in years. “A son of the man who killed my father and massacred my people and ravaged the whole of the eastern shore for a  _ decade _ before I killed him with my own hands?”

The man spits blood onto the pavement, his expression equal parts despairing and defiant.

“My mother was a rebel commander. I never knew my father,” he says, pushing himself up from the pavement until he’s kneeling. His voice is raspy and earnest, curling around Shiro’s heart in its impossible familiarity.

“I  _ did _ know mine,” Allura says, and Shiro knows where this is going with the same sort of falling in his stomach that he felt the first time he thought he was going to die. “And then yours killed him. Guards,” she gestures, “take him away and execute him.”

Shiro’s standing before the captive before it even fully registers what he’s doing, and the shock on Allura’s face is no doubt all that saves him as he kneels at her feet, bowing his head. 

“Your majesty,” he says, and tries not to listen to the absolute silence that has fallen around the courtyard at the spectacle playing out under the high noonday sun. “As your general - as your  _ friend _ \- I ask for your mercy.”

There is a long pause during which he does not dare lift his face, but eventually he sees Allura shift from foot to foot, and hears her exhale sharply.

“Is this man known to you, General Shirogane?” she asks, and Shiro can feel goosebumps rise on his arm at the barely sheathed violence in her tone. 

“He has saved my life a number of times, your majesty,” Shiro answers her, “at considerable risk to his own and for no reward.”

“And did you know who he was?” she asks, and Shiro drops his head further.

“I did not, your majesty. But it does not matter.” He pins his eyes to her feet and presses. “Regardless of his parentage, he has saved me many times over, which,” he takes a careful breath, “in turn has likely saved you.”

The silence between them stretches, elongating to the point that he can hear the crowd begin to murmur. 

“Respectfully, your highness,” the man beside Shiro starts, but shuts his mouth at the sharp cut of Allura’s hand through the air.

“ _ Silence _ ,” she hisses, “if you survive this encounter, Galroyan scum, it will be on account of the grace of General Shirogane and nothing else,  _ do you understand _ ?”

The man lifts his chin, and Shiro elbows him hard, risking the ire of both in the hopes of heading off a further confrontation which the prisoner will, undoubtedly, lose.

“Shiro,” Allura whispers, and her voice is so sad, “you know that I cannot simply let the son of my greatest enemy go free.”

“A life for a life, your majesty,” Shiro answers steadily, finally daring to lift his eyes. “Mine for his.”

The anger on her face is terrifying, but Shiro has known her since they were children, and he can tell she’s masking her fear and sorrow. It gives him hope, even as his heart breaks within his chest.

“I will not order your death, Shiro,” she tells him softly, then raises her voice. “I will grant your petition, General Shirogane. Your life in exchange for this prisoner’s. You may have until sundown to gather your belongings and as many supplies as you both can carry.” She draws a deep breath. “When the sun sets beyond the water, you must be outside the city walls. You will be stripped of your rank and your citizenship, and must go with the prisoner into exile. This is my final decision.”

Shiro bows, pressing his forehead to the ground between her feet. 

“Thank you,” he breathes, just loud enough that he’s sure she will hear it before she turns and strides away, leaving the prisoner and himself in the dust.

\---

“Why?”

The question startles Shiro, and he realizes it’s the first time he’s ever heard the man’s voice directed at him. He glances over at his companion, who stares resolutely forward, not meeting Shiro’s eyes. He’s beautiful, Shiro thinks, dark hair falling around his sharp face, light from the setting sun illuminating flecks of gold in his striking violet eyes. 

They’ve made camp on the hills that divide Peraltea from the kingdoms of the Siksatie, the furthest east that Shiro’s ever been, and Shiro can’t quite identify the thick mix of emotions that twist in his chest as he watches the sun set on his old life, his old home.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, shifting his seat on the rocky outcropping where they sit. “You’ve saved me a dozen times. I’ve only saved you the once.”

“Twice,” the man corrects, and Shiro blinks in surprise, turning to meet his gaze. “I was eight, traveling with my father, the…” he pauses, and Shiro can see the flash of sorrow in his dark eyes. “With the man who I thought was my father. We were attacked, and he was killed.” 

Shiro bites his lip, not wanting to interrupt, but wanting to express sympathy, comfort, at the obviously still painful memory. He settles for nodding in acknowledgment, holding his breath. 

“I was too shocked to run, and they captured me, strung me up and hung me by my wrists with the other captives. We were to be sold as slaves, but then a raiding party came through.” The man glances up at Shiro, face pinched with remembered pain. “You were in the lead, and your men wanted to take the money and supplies and run, but you made them wait while you came and freed the prisoners, every one of us.”

Shiro exhales hard. “I remember it,” he says, and he does - he remembers the fear of being brand new to his leadership, only a teenager himself and serving a teenage ruler, terrified that the men under his command would rebel and throw him off, would disobey and leave him captive with the other unfortunates. 

“I swore that day that I would do my best to keep you from harm,” the man says, and spreads his hands, giving a bitter laugh. “So much for that.”

Shiro can’t help himself. He reaches out and grabs hold of one of the other man’s hands, hoping that he’s not overstepping. “You  _ have _ ,” he says, voice full of certainty and awe. “You have saved me more times than I can count, probably more than I even know.”

“Yes,” the man agrees, “and now I’ve taken you from your home, your friends, your entire life.” Those purple eyes are dark with regret, and Shiro hurts with it. “So again, I ask - why?”

Shiro strokes his thumb across the hand in his, waiting until that aching gaze is locked to his own before he gives a twisted half smile. “Because,” he says, “I owed you a debt.” He shakes his head sharply when the other man starts to protest. “Because I couldn’t bear to see something so wonderful destroyed.” He pauses, hoping against hope that he’s not reading the tension between them wrong, exhaling hard before he continues. “Because I’d rather spend a new life with you than an old life without you,” he says finally, and feels the body next to him tense in shock.

“ _ Shiro _ ,” the man whispers, voice soft and reverent, and when Shiro looks up, those beautiful eyes are full of emotion, deep and hopeful.

Shiro laughs softly, shaking his head. “Unfair,” he says, and smiles. “I don’t even know your name.”

The man blinks in surprise, then grins, shifting their grip so that he can lift Shiro’s hand and bring it to rest on his own armor, Shiro’s palm flat just above his heart. 

“I’m Keith,” he says, and Shiro can barely repress the shiver that runs through him at the feeling of that voice reverberating beneath his hand. 

“ _ Keith _ ,” Shiro murmurs, letting the reverence he feels for everything about this man fill his tone, smiling as Keith shivers at the sound of his name on Shiro’s tongue. He smiles as the sun sinks its last rays into the sea. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  
  
  



End file.
